Fervency
by anamariewrites
Summary: Gaara isn't quite so emotionless. Nine prompts.


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Word Count: 2,519

_Dedicated to: _**CollaneR**_, whom I consider to be a dear friend. This is for all the times she stayed up with me and talked me through my writer's block. For all the times she read over my work even though she must have had better things to do. For all the times she makes me laugh and feel better after a really long day. For being a good friend. :)_

Beta'd by: The radiant Morgan. Without her this chapter would have been riddled with abused semi-colons and enough misplaced tenses to occupy Paris.

A/N: This is the first of nine prompts given to me by Collane. (The only person who gets to hassle me about updating is her. :D) Please enjoy and tell me what you think, this is my first time writing something even remotely sexual. Which reminds me:

**Warning: **Sexual themes and violent imagery ahead. Those under 13 or with a parent over their shoulder, turn back.

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Crazy.**

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"Half gods are worshipped in wine and flowers. Real gods require blood."- Their Eyes Were Watching God

A scream grated through the night air, shocking the forest and rousing cawing birds from their nests. Blood dripped down from the temples and eyes of the cooling body contorted in the leaves; it was a woman and she was beautiful, full lips and raven hair. A monster stood over her, unblinking and terrifying, a child with a soul as black as the darkness in the silent forest. He was curious, almost, inquisitive in his actions as he watched the blood drip down the contours of her face, pooling in the little dimple in her upper lip and landing with a pitter patter on the dried autumn leaves. The boy had killed her—lifting his arms high above his head. He sent the earth to stop her breath, squeezing away her life until it manifested in tears, snot, and blood. She'd landed with a heavy thump and her legs were twisted at an unnatural angle. The redheaded youth turned away and started to walk. He would leave her for the wolves.

There was life all around him in the Konoha forest; insects whirred and rodents scurried in the underbrush. Owls hooted and slitted eyes glowed bright in the darkness. Even the moon seemed to be busy, rocking back and forth in the sky like a mother would hold her child, shushing the babe and shielding it away from harm. In Suna, there was no life; snakes slithered pathways in the sand, venom coursing through their body, death lying dormant in their fangs. There were no trees, there was no chirping of little chicks, and no trickling of a sleepy stream. There was sand, sand, and more sand. Exhaustion, and the type of thirst that couldn't be quenched. There was never a shortage of death in Suna.

"The Demon", that's what they called him. Even as a mere child, he had enough power within him to destroy buildings, and enough hate coiled up in his belly to kill everyone inside. He was the youngest son of the Kazekage, murderer of his own mother, a dulled kunai to be sharpened and put to use. They shunned him, scorned him and used his name in the vilest of curses. Children ran in fear and his own siblings would not lower their eyes to meet his. He was an outcast. A black sheep among his pristine fellows. A failed experiment that needed to be eliminated.

His village, his people, his _father_ tried to kill him; bombs, knives, swords, shards of glass in his supper; starvation, dehydration, poison, holding his head under water. The first time someone tried to take his life, he was three years old and tucked in bed. A shadow slipped in through his door and held a pillow over his face. There wasn't a struggle because his arms were that of any child his age, weak and useless to defend himself. He'd slipped into unconsciousness, and when he awoke there was blood _everywhere_ and a body crumpled in front of his bed—thing is,_ his _monsters didn't live _inside_ the closet.

It happened like that often. Gaara would drift away in his mind and wake to blood and bodies with no recollection of how they arrived. He would hear voices sometimes. His mother would tell him to pick up the kitchen knife, and a deep and frightening voice would tell him to put it in the back of his brother. His mother would tell him to pick up the cord lying in the shed, and a deep and frightening voice would tell him to wrap it around his sister's neck. He listened, sometimes; when he was five, Gaara pushed a man off the roof; when he was six, he used his sand to make bodies disappear. It was just like magic. He would swoop his hands in the air theatrically, whispering nonsense words and lifting grown men off the ground, cradling them in the hot and heavy sand and closing his fingers tightly. He found that if he did it quickly enough, they wouldn't even have time to scream.

Gaara learned how to kill, and he learned how to kill well. By the time he was ten, the assassination attempts ceased, and the Suna Elders made him a ninja. They sent him out to foreign villages and told him to kill their enemies. He didn't care much. His sand wasn't picky. Really, all bodies felt the same. Gaara killed and killed and killed, validating his existence and depriving others of theirs. He'd read once that some warriors used to believe that when they killed another man in battle, they would absorb that warrior's spirit and carry it with them always. Gaara liked the sound of that. He would kill strong men and be stronger for it. Except, sometimes, Gaara didn't kill men. Gaara killed everyone.

In Konoha, the famed village of geniuses and flame-eaters, Gaara killed a woman for no reason other than that he _could_. He stole her breath away and locked it in a box, peering inside as he pleased, giddy like a child and content like a man. If he were any other boy he'd be tearing through the forest, whooping and hollering, pumping his fists in the air and climbing trees. He'd be sneaking his hand down the front of his pants and gasping for air, snatching the waist of the nearest girl and dipping her down low, letting her hair sweep the ground as he pressed his lips to hers. He'd take that same girl somewhere secluded and have his wicked way with her, wrapping her legs around him and taking her harsh and quick, clothes ripped and back bearing bloody welts from a brick wall... But Gaara—Gaara could only be _Gaara_, and Gaara killed.

And he would kill now, in the heart of the forest, fortified with the heady aftertaste of a recent kill and the trust of a village that had invited him in. He was a guest in Konoha and Gaara wanted to tilt his head back and _roar_ with laughter. He noticed a tiny cabin tucked in between two monstrous trees. There was candlelight flickering in the window, and the delicious scent of fresh venison wafted through the air. Gaara thought for a minute, stopping in front of a fox den and brushing away a cicada that landed on his shoulder. There was laughter coming from the cabin. He smirked; he'd never tasted deer before.

The cabin was quaint and old-fashioned. The logs were uneven and fresh mud dripped down over them. There were people inside and they were chanting—low, guttural mixtures of hums and groans. Their voices were rising and falling in unison; deep bass tones drummed in Gaara's chest and wailing female voices pierced through wood and came to an abrupt stop before him. Blood seemed to rush through his veins and slosh against the sides; he shook in anticipation and he was lost. A deep voice murmured sweet nothings in his ears and he could almost feel the warmth of breath on the back of his neck. Gaara wanted, he wanted, he _wanted_.

With a flick of his delicate wrist and a twist of a smile, Gaara sent his sand through the cracks in the logs. It made soft _shushing_ sounds and it wound its way around the cabin and down the chimney; it crunched underneath Gaara's feet as he shifted with nervous energy. His armor itched and he felt his mother calling him. The spirit in his sand moved like quicksilver, caressing his body and tightening around his neck. It was only a matter of time before—"Mother! There's sand coming down the chimney!"

Ah, yes.

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His sand was pleased with him and she told Gaara so. She curled herself around his body like a viper—all poison and fangs, slithering and constricting her way up his body as best she could. Much of her lay quivering on the filthy floor mixed with commoner dirt and twigs, sluggishly creeping towards her gourd, the normal shushing noises of her movement giving way to the sick squelching of her body heavy with sweet blood and carnage.

Oh, oh, _ooh_. _Yes._

Gaara's knees buckled underneath him and he slid ungracefully down the wall opposite the accusing eyes of cooling bodies that pierced him straight through. He reached his hand up and tangled his fingers in his tunic, surprised that he couldn't feel his own blood gushing from a wound wider than the slack faces in front of him with gaping mouths and heavy tongues. The thought alone stirred up something so deep inside of him that he wanted to reach a hand down into himself and _drag it out_.

Gaara couldn't breathe and couldn't believe he'd ever lived without this maddening feeling that turned him inside out and poisoned his brain and hardened every part of him that worshipped human blood, human pain, demon instincts. Gaara writhed and moaned. He threw his head back against the ruined walls and dragged his uneven hair through chunks of intestine and smatterings of bile and black blood, exposing the tender line of his neck not yet interrupted by masculinity. His voice broke and wavered as he widened his legs and lifted both hands above his head and dropped them back down and forced them into fists and into the ground and—

"O-oh, g-god..." A small voice pleaded from the heap of corpses. Gaara didn't _care_ as the voice started pleading louder and louder and became a sweet, sweet note to the cacophony of horror-screams and death rattles that he conducted and orchestrated and brought life (oh, oh, ha, ha, _ha_) to.

And it was _glorious._

The people in the house were ninja, and they all fought as such; fingers flying through seals and kunai being whipped through the air, bared teeth and clawing fingers when they were disarmed. Gaara fought as if the whole world was watching, lifting his arms above his head and swooping them forwards and backwards, holding his hands palm up as his sands cradled the heads of his victims, closing his fists as he crushed their skulls. He jumped through the air and landed like a cat on all fours, smirking like his namesake and raining sand down onto the floor. It was over so quickly.

There were six of them, and then four of them, and then there was the last one of them that Gaara killed with his bare hands; a pretty lad that was all delicate lips and hands and delicate neck that snapped like a bundle of thin sticks over Gaara's bony knee. Delicate teeth (even though most of them were_ outside_ of his mouth) and delicate limbs that were bent at unnatural, gorgeous angles.

_Oh, _and there was screaming. Shrieking and cursing and acidic oaths that stripped the paint off the walls and stoked the fire burning deep in Gaara's loins. At one point it seemed as if the house itself was screaming, yelling and pleading from the stones in the foundation, and its inhabitants from raw and bloody throats, eyes wide with a righteous fear as Gaara squeezed life right out of them and allowed it to settle into the air around him; breathing it in until it settled like lead weights in his lungs.

"P-please, god..."

Gaara shoved a fist into his mouth to stifle his laughter as tears collected at the corners of his eyes and threatened to overflow. Struggling, he pushed himself off of the wall and crawled towards the voice, dragging his hips through the blood, cock twitching at the cool pressure. Gaara moaned aloud as he reached his destination, pushing aside a decapitated head and limbs and he brushed hair away from the speaker's face. Leaning on his side and propping himself up with his elbow, Gaara took in the sight of the wide and frightened pair of green eyes that strained to hold his own.

His gaze slid further down the young feminine face and likewise his hand crept further down his body, catching on his nipples and pinching and circling them until they peaked and ached so deliciously. The girl had the most exquisite lips, full and a bitten red. Gaara panted as he imagined himself thrusting into the warmth of her mouth, pressing his cock against the back of her throat as she gagged and sobbed. He could almost feel the coolness of the air and he took himself out of her mouth and spread her legs wide, sitting her down on him and forcing her to move, forcing her to pleasure him, allowing his sand access to her body in places that even he couldn't penetrate.

_Oh, _oh_, yes._

Reaching his hand down to palm his crotch, he rocked against it, growing mad with the lack of release and delightfully insane from the sticky friction of the coarse material of his tunic and the drying blood. He was harder than anything he'd ever felt and he _ached _in ways he hadn't since he was younger and wiser and performing magic tricks with body parts and brain matter. Sand lifted up from the floor and swirled around him in a grand display, mimicking a hurricane and leaving him in the eye where he writhed in everything that was the opposite of peace.

"H-help me..."

Gaara cried out and landed on his back, palms down and nails scrabbling for purchase against the flat of the floor. His sand shot forward into the mouth of the crying girl with an intensity that tore the corners of her mouth until she grinned from ear to ear, choking and writhing much like Gaara was.

He needed he needed something everything anything and then his vision blackened and brightened funneling outwards and inwards as the deep deep voice in his head that whispered such _filthy _things to him rose in volume and quieted abruptly. But Gaara didn't care because his stomach was clenching and his legs were shaking and he couldn't see couldn't think couldn't breathe until he was granted relief in a rush of energy that exploded out of him and coated his pants and stuck to his skin and made him gasp gasp gasp and horror-scream and death rattle and think that existing should _always _feel this way and—

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End file.
